Fatman:  Before the party
by AuFox80
Summary: A short fanfic of Fatman prior to MGS2.
1. Chapter 1

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The young man watched the pendulum swing in majestic arcs, within a large, ornate grandfather clock. He had always loved clocks. _I guess I can thank my father for that_. The young man continued walking aimlessly in front of the displays looking at the antique watches and noting the clocks on the walls. He scoffed at the digital clocks and watches. _You can't even hear the rhythm!_. He stopped across the department store clock counter employee, huddled over a dismantled clock. The shining gold metal gears reflected the harsh fluorescent lights into the young man's face.

He is a portly youth, with a large midsection and a rather thick neck. His shoulders are broad, with large arms, equally strong as they are fat. His hands, however, do not seem to match the rest of his body. The hands are immaculate with slender and soft fingers. Upon closer inspection, one could find indications of a manicure.

"You've got to adjust the going train. I'm guessing that the clock's gears run too fast," offered the young man.

Frustrated, the clock counter employee looked up and responded, "Oh yea, hotshot? Why don't you show me how it's done."

The young man silently adjusted the going train of the clock and delicately realigned the gears. With a final CLICK, the last gear was put into position. The young man closed the back cover of the clock, held it up above the counter, and admired his work as the second hand resolutely ticked the passage of time.

"Not bad. Want a job here?"

The young man shook his head. "I've got somewhere to be." He glanced at one of the clocks. _DAMN_! He had spent so much time fixing the clock and admiring his work, he lost track of time. "I'm going to be late for the party," he mumbled.

The young man briskly walked out of the store.

"HEY! Wait!" the employee yelled. "You forgot your cologne!" The employee caught up to the young man and gave him the cologne. "Where are you in such a rush to?"

"The Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal at Indian Head." With that, the young man continued his brisk pace and disappeared around the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

The young man huffed and puffed in front of an office door. He looked up and read "ADMIRAL JACKSON" in large stenciled block letters. Tentatively, the young portly man knocked on the door.

"Come in," came a muffled voice, within the office.

The young man opened the door and walked into a large office, decorated with naval certificates and a parquet floor. In the corner, there stood a large ornate grandfather clock similar to the one he saw a few minutes ago. The young man grinned inwardly.

"You're right on time, I see. I like a punctual man," said Admiral Jackson as he watched the young man catch his breath. "Have a seat."

As the youth sat down, the Admiral looked over his dossier. The young man that was sitting before him had built a nuclear bomb when he was ten. TEN! Ever since then, he's been busy building his repertoire and knowledge about explosives and demolition. No wonder why this kid caught Stillman's eye, the Admiral thought.

"I'm impressed by your qualifications . . . _Fatman_. You're a legend here at NSEOD," remarked the Admiral.

With this praise, Fatman could not help but smile. "Thanks."

"Sir. Thank you, _**sir**_. Listen here now, _Little boy_." Fatman's smile disappeared, but somehow magically transferred to Jackson, as the Admiral smiled at Fatman's reaction. "A legend is nothing but fiction. Someone tells it. Someone else remembers. Everybody passes it on. This doesn't matter here. You are now attending a Naval school. As such, there are some expectations to be met. First and foremost, you are expected to show respect to your superiors, and address them as 'sir,' do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. We also expect you to be sound in mind and body. You seemed out of breath when you came into this office. It would be ideal if you built up your stamina. Try running, swimming, or perhaps rollerblading. The latter improves coordination as well." The Admiral lowered his voice as he said, "My son can attest to that. It's a shame that he's involved with that Marine brat." The Admiral smiled. "Sweet girl, though. In any case, do you know why you're here?"

"To learn as much about explosives, ordnance and demolition, sir."

"Very good. Do you know who recommended you?"

"No, sir."

"Peter Stillman."

Fatman's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "_The_ Peter Stillman . . . sir?"

"Correct. You'll meet with him tomorrow at 0800. Do you have any questions?"

Still flabberghasted, Fatman shook his head. "No, sir."

"That is all. Dismissed."


	3. Chapter 3

Fatman walked in the warm, humid afternoon. He found a large oak tree and sat at the base of the trunk in the shade. Methodically, Fatman unpacked his lunch and laid it next to him. He started to eat his sandwich as he ruminated about the past few months at Indian Head.

Peter Stillman was a great lecturer. Fatman considered it an honor to be in the same room as him, let alone be taught by him. Most of what he taught was basic, rudimentary stuff -- how to use C4, SEMTEX and other plastic explosives; wiring schematics; safety regulations and the like. However, Fatman gobbled up this knowledge almost as hungrily as he gobbled up his sandwich. Today's lecture on implosion techniques caught Fatman's attention, and he enjoyed every minute of it.

_Peter Stillman, an African American male in his mid-forties, walked gingerly in front of the classroom with the assistance of his cane._

"One of the most important things to remember when imploding a structure is to look for symmetry," Stillman began. "We see all types of symmetry in our lives. We see radial symmetry in things such as the planets, wheels, flowers, seastars, etc. Keep in mind this type of symmetry when dealing with circular buildings. Where would you place the explosives when dealing with such structures?"

Fatman raised his hand. Stillman nodded at him. "At the center of the structure, then concentric circles radiating outward."

"Well said."

Fatman smiled, but didn't feel proud as he heard a couple students mimicking his answer.

"In addition to radial symmetry," Stillman continued, "there is bilateral symmetry. Take, for instance, a building shaped like a figure 8. Who would place explosives all along the figure 8?"

A few students raised their hands.

"That would be a waste of good explosives. In my view, it'd be much easier and less time consuming to place a large amount of explosives in two places. Anybody know where they are?"

One of the students who mimicked Fatman raised his hand. When acknowledged, he said, "In the center of the 8, where the two lines intersect."

"I suppose. But where would you put the other large bundle of explosives? The center of the figure 8 seems like an obvious choice, but there is a much more efficient strategy. Anybody want to take a shot at this?" Stillman asked.

The room was quiet. Fatman, overcoming his embarrassment from before, raised his hand. "At the top and the bottom of the 8."

"Excellent. Buildings with bilateral symmetry depend on a very exact balance. If you do as was suggested, the figure-8 building will tear itself apart under its own weight. As I said earlier, this will consume less time, energy and explosives; something that is desired when imploding buildings. 

While Fatman was recalling the lecture, the two students who mimicked his answer met with a civilian friend. The civilian had brought a six pack of Coronas to share with his two friends on the hot day.

"Hey! Hey _Fatman_! Hey you!" exclaimed one of the bullies.

Fatman looked up and took notice of the three young men standing near another oak tree. The civilian passed the beers around and started smoking a cigarette.

"Hey! So, is it true that you built a nuke?" asked the civilian.

"Yea. Why?" Fatman asked, as he shifted his weight to look at the three men.

"No reason. Just wondering if the rumors were true. So, you're the legendary Fatman these two jerks are talking about. It's a shame that you weren't around during World War II, we could have dropped your _fat_ ass and could have saved a nuke!"

The three hecklers started to laugh uproariously.

"Ha ha. Go ahead. Laugh. For all I care . . . LAUGH!" Fatman responded and turned around to finish his sandwich.

"And grow FAT!!!!" the third heckler yelled. The trio continued laughing.

Fatman no longer felt hungry. Fatman began to turn around again to confront his oppressors, but felt a glass object in his pocket. He pulled out a glass vial of his favorite cologne. It was almost empty; he had meant to throw it away earlier that day, but had forgotten to as he was so excited about today's lecture.

"What is that?" asked the civilian. "Oooh, cologne. Fatboy must be rich. Probably as rich as a king!" Fatman glared at him.

"Or an emperor," chimed in the second heckler.

"Yea, the emperor of explosives!" laughed the third.

The trio resumed laughing. The civilian didn't laugh as hard since he wasn't privy to what was discussed in the lectures. While the two other students continued to chortle, the civilian looked at his cigarette and noticed he'd been neglecting it. The civilian tapped the cigarette causing the ash to fall to the ground. He took a drag from the cigarette but could barely get any smoke.

Fatman, who had been watching the civilian intently, noticed the small red embers within the cigarette and anticipated what the smoker would do. As the civilian positioned the cigarette at the tips of his index finger to flick to the ground, Fatman reared his right arm back, like a pitcher in his windup.

As if in slow motion, the smoker flicked the cigarette towards the ground. At the same time, Fatman lobbed the near-empty cologne vial in a majestic arc towards the trio. Upon impact with the ground, the cigarette's embers flared as if a demon's eyes were opened. A second later, the vial crashed right next to the cigarette. The vial shattered into a thousand pieces as the vapor within expanded and ignited, creating a large fireball.

The laughing trio's faces changed from glee to horror as they felt the flames lick their khaki pants. The fireball's sudden burst of heat, compounded with the already hot air, caused the unopened beer bottles to burst. POP POP POP! The three young men ran in the direction of Indian Head, only to be accosted by the Naval Master-at-Arms members.

Fatman smiled as he realized that they would get in trouble for drinking while attending the NSEOD. With all the circumstantial evidence -- cigarette butts, shattered glass and beer bottles -- it seemed unlikely to Fatman that he'd get blamed.

"Laugh. And grow fat!" Fatman said, as he started to eat his dessert.


End file.
